airstrike

The air filled with the humming of aircraft, and we dropped our hands to stare skywards. Jets streamed overhead, their afterburners reflected endlessly off the skyscrapers across the valley. There were no sirens. They'd been taken down years before.

The jets were beautiful, in a strange way. Their smoky plumage leaving trails across the cloudscape. Our jaws hung open, as we stood in the field, our eyes following the planes. First one, then two, a dozen or more. And all the while, no one moved, no one spoke, no one breathed.

There was a strange whistling noise as the metal eagles streaked past the horizon, growing smaller and smaller, much faster than we would have thought. Then the planes were gone, but the noise continued, echoing across the valley. Dogwalkers on the paths by the river stood stock-still, their canine companions barking on the ends of their leashes, confused, ignored.

When the bombs went off, we were all surprised. It seems so stupid now. Would planes fly over a city, dropping whistling packages of anything else?